


Nights

by authoresskika



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoresskika/pseuds/authoresskika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights are to be survived; some nights, celebrated. </p>
<p>(Peeks into Chaol's nights alone in ToG and HoF -- and of he and Celaena in CoM.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HawthorneWhisperer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/gifts).



**I.**

 

He can taste the jealousy on his tongue at the thought of their interludes. He knows his friend’s reputation; he’s not sure a girl like her could be wooed so easily, he knows how persuasive Dorian can be. It is, therefore, his forgone conclusion that when they see the sunrise, they’ll be naked in one another’s embrace.

 

And it’s making Chaol _seethe_. 

 

It isn’t his place — he has no claim on the Assassin, nor would he ever expect to. A man of his position has little to offer her; but a prince… Dorian can offer her everything. She’d be a fool not to take it, whether or not she’s interested.

 

(He hopes beyond measure she isn’t interested.)

 

There’s something else to his jealousy, something more primal stirring in his gut at the thought of his friend touching her skin, of his fingers roaming across her belly, her breasts, cupping her jaw, their lips meeting and tangling.

 

Chaol retires to his chambers, his cheeks flushed and his trousers ill-fitting. He’s ashamed of what he does next, deeply ashamed. But as he cries out in relief, it’s her name on his lips. And in his head, it’s his body pressed against hers.

 

* * *

 

 

**II.**

 

They’d trembled through it; lying next to her now, knowing her body as he does, Chaol feels like a such a great fool. It hadn’t occurred to him to just — try. To get his noble head out of his noble as and just try. If it had, perhaps he could have had her like this weeks ago. 

 

She stretches like a cat and curls against his chest. They’ve spoken little (they haven’t needed words since he’d asked her if she was sure), but her gaze speaks volumes. He cups her cheek with his palm and sinks into the mattress, seeking out her mouth with his.

 

She’s writhing beside him, and it’s more than enough to rouse him again. He blushes when her fingertips begin to roam his chest, his sides, his thighs. Her fingers close around him, and he shudders.

 

“Show me,” she whispers.

 

His eyes snap open. She pivots, straddles his legs and sits on the tops of his thighs, and looks down at him pointedly with him still in her hand. Her clever fingers squeeze and move, like she’s sensing what to do without being told. But she says the words again (“Show me”) and his fingers lace with hers.

 

“It’s, ah… It’s like this.”

 

He moves her hand, trailing up and down his engorged shaft slowly, letting her weigh him against her palm. His fingers wrap around the head, and she imitates his grip. Her thumb dips into the tiny crevice at the very tip and she seems almost startled by the little bead of moisture she finds there.

 

“It’s supposed to… It means it feels… _Gods_ …”

 

He catches her smile in the moonlight, a wicked, knowing grin, and she bats his hand away. She’s quick to learn everything else, so why not this? His whimpers of pleasure turn into a grimace when her grip grows dry. He loops his fingers around her wrist and urges her up to the slit again, to use the moisture to her advantage. He almost loses it when she licks the palm of her other hand, and switches. Her hands are warm, her lithe fingers vice-like, and he’s bucking into her hand, unable to control the groans and foul words spilling from his lips.

 

Then his spine jerks, and he quickly cups the head to catch the sticky liquid in his palm. She looks down at him, mesmerized. She grins in triumph; he wonders if she feels as powerful over him as he feels power _less_ when it’s her touching him. It hadn’t taken more than a few moments for him to become completely ensorcelled by her, but _gods_ , does he ever find himself falling over and over, again and again.

 

 He finds a bit of discarded cloth on his night-table to dry off his tacky hand, then crushes her back to his chest. Their tongues dance as her fingers slide into his short hair; it’s easy to overturn her, press her back against his pillows, and pop up on his forearms. He looks down at her, his own mischievous smile a mirror of hers. 

 

“Now you know what happens when _I_ —“ he says, licking his lips and letting the word go unsaid. “Let me watch you when _you_ —“

 

Her wicked grin doesn’t falter, even when he trails his fingers between her thighs, separating her supple flesh and exploring the velvety softness he finds there. When her eyes flutter shut and her hips rise off the bed, he feels his chest swell — her grin has turned into slack-jawed pleasure. Her face is always beautiful; but contorted in pleasure, she lights his heart on fire.

 

* * *

 

**III.**

 

That’s the look Chaol holds onto in his mind’s eye months later, when an entire ocean and a sea of hatred separates them. Her various forms do not coexist well in his head. When it’s late and he has a long day ahead of him, he clings to the memory of her face when it was happy, blissful, loving. When she’d purr and murmur his name before he entered her. When she’d beg him to finish her with his fingers and tongue. When she’d roll and lift and sink her hips on top of him as they reached that peak together. He’d memorized every noise she made, every contour of her face, every expression.

 

It’s what gets him through the nights now.

 

At night, with himself in his hand, he can pretend that everything is the same. He can cling to the fantasy of the time before everything fell apart when she was in his bed, when his name on her lips was music, not laced with betrayal and rage. When she was just a girl, he was just a boy, and they might, one day, have a future beyond the walls of the glass palace.

 

It’s a fantasy: a fantasy that with each passing day of her absence, he’s learning to accept will never likely come to pass. All he’ll have are his memories, the vivid pictures of her in his mind when she’d say his name in ecstasy and they’d ride wave after wave of pleasure together. 

 

It helps him sleep. It helps with the missing her. It helps with the longing.

 

It helps. But gods... Chaol knows deep in his heart that it'll never be enough.

 

 


End file.
